


Sky Every Day

by susiecarter



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Drinking & Talking, Emotionally Repressed, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: The day after they got back on base, everybody went straight for the pilots' club.
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 37
Kudos: 106
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Sky Every Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brenda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Brenda!

The day after they got back on base, everybody went straight for the pilots' club.

That was where they'd have been headed anyway, after graduation, if there hadn't been a crisis situation breaking up the party. But better late than never—or at least that was what Wolfman said before whooping at the ceiling, four or five rounds in.

It was nice. Seeing their whole class together, having fun. Iceman felt aware, relentlessly, that once they got their assignments, their transfers, there was a good chance they'd never be in the same room again. Some of them, sure. One or two might even get posted to the same carrier. But not all of them.

The beer was okay. The music wasn't bad. He felt his mouth twitch at one corner, watching Hollywood chuck Slider's chin and ruffle his hair, saying something Ice couldn't catch. It felt good to have graduated, and it felt good to have won that trophy, to know his name was going to be on that TOPGUN plaque forever. It felt good to be alive.

But it wasn't any of those things that was responsible for the steady warmth that was lighting him up from the inside out, and he knew it.

He caught himself starting to look around twice before he gave up and allowed it: kept his face in the calm, expressionless lines it always fell into so easily, and did a casual sweep of the room. The dance floor, the tables, the back wall, the bar.

No Maverick.

Iceman gave it ten minutes, like it wasn't a big deal. Like it didn't really matter. Like there was nothing he wanted all that much more than he wanted to be in this room. He talked to Chipper for a minute, got himself another beer, accepted Stinger's ribbing with a cool stare and then paid the next round in advance for everybody once no one was close enough to hear him talking to the bartender.

And then, one step at a time, precise like he'd planned the flight path in advance, he eased his way to the wall and followed it around to the door, and left.

The entryway had a portico, clean white columns. Iceman paused next to one, leaned sideways against it, and wondered whether he'd been wrong. The air was crisp, cool, the sky huge and dark, and he stayed where he was for a second, beer half-forgotten in his hand, eyes adjusting—the lights of San Diego were bright in the distance, warming the horizon to about the color of Ice's beer bottle, but it wasn't the same kind of bright as the lights right over the bar had been.

He tilted his head back, and searched idly for a star. Probably too much haze, he thought, and then caught one sharp white pinprick showing through. There was nobody looking; he smiled, just a little.

"Calling it a night already?"

Iceman turned around.

Maverick was sitting off to one side, at the edge of the pavement coming up the drive; Iceman had to lean forward a little to see him properly, around the side of the column.

He had a beer, too. But he wasn't drinking it. He was just sitting there, elbows on his knees, bottle dangling from his fingertips.

He'd tipped his head to look at Iceman. Their eyes met, and then Maverick straightened out again, went back to what he'd been doing: looking at the sky, too.

It was a stupid thing to notice. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't a sign, one more way they matched each other step for step, pilot and wingman.

But Iceman's gut lurched anyway.

Nothing showed on his face. He made sure of it, even though Maverick wasn't looking at him anymore. He said evenly, "Just needed some air."

Maverick huffed a skeptical breath through his nose, and then lifted his beer, tilted it up; Iceman watched the smooth motion of his throat working as he swallowed, and then realized he was doing it and made himself look back out at the city lights instead.

"So," he said. "You're staying on, huh."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Around."

It was true. True enough. Iceman hadn't even had to ask—hadn't had to find out for sure whether he would have asked, whether he'd have discovered he wanted to know more badly than he wanted to make sure nobody realized he wanted to know. Half the guys had been talking about it in the locker room.

"Yeah," Maverick said, belated answer, because of course he couldn't have just given it up right away. "They gave me my choice of duty. Said I was thinking about being an instructor. Nobody's told me I can't so far."

Iceman couldn't help it; he laughed, just a little, through his teeth. "You wouldn't listen to them if they did."

And he had to look over, then. Maverick was looking back—steady, for a second, blank-faced, and then suddenly he smiled, bright flash of teeth in the dimness.

"No chance in hell," he agreed.

It was good, right then.

And then Iceman cleared his throat and took a sip of his own beer, and made himself say, "You and Charlie sorted things out, then."

He wanted to think he had the good sense to hope for a _yes_. A _sure we did, I proposed and everything, we're getting married tomorrow_. Because that would settle it, after all. That would cut him loose, even if he'd rather be strapped in tight, hanging on through the climbing Gs for everything he was worth.

But Maverick narrowed his eyes instead, narrowed his eyes and said, "Sure. We met up at the bar, talked it out. We're okay. But I'm not staying for her."

Shit. Fuck.

Iceman drew a slow breath, kept his face still. "Your loss," he heard himself say, and it came out cool and even, and somewhere far away from himself he was dimly surprised.

Because he didn't feel cool. He didn't feel even. There was something about the way Maverick had said that, the searching way he'd been watching Ice when he did, that made Iceman unsteady, somewhere deep down inside where nothing had ever so much as wobbled before—somewhere he never let anything touch him, except apparently Maverick could.

But then that was Maverick all over. Rules were for other people.

"What about you?" Maverick was saying, what felt like a long way away from Iceman. "You won. Got an instructor's spot of your own, whenever you want it."

"Yeah," Iceman said, vague, and brought his beer to his mouth, drank and drank, and wished he wasn't about to reach the bottom.

* * *

He was a good pilot—better than good. He was fucking fantastic. But the thing he was fucking fantastic at was doing what he was supposed to. Understanding exactly what everyone wanted from him, and executing it flawlessly. Textbook.

But there was no textbook for this. He didn't know what he was supposed to do anymore; nobody was telling him. He could handle combat duty. He'd probably even survive it.

It just wasn't what he wanted.

He'd never had to deal with that before. What he should do and what he wanted to do had always been the same, up until now.

Fucking Maverick.

Graduation had been great. Graduation had been perfect. The thing that had squeezed itself tight around Iceman's heart the moment he'd seen Maverick shouting on the tarmac, the moment he'd come into the locker room and found Maverick there in civvies, hadn't been so tight he couldn't ignore it. He'd proven it, nailing top marks and winning that trophy.

And then they'd been sent out. It hadn't even been pulling it off; it hadn't even been landing on the tarmac, or seeing Maverick and feeling himself smile so wide he couldn't hope to stop it, or Maverick in his arms holding on as tight as Ice was holding him.

It had been that voice on his radio that had fucked him. _I can't leave Ice._

He'd been safe, before that. He'd been pissed as hell, in point of fact. He'd told himself he'd sure learned his lesson; whatever it was in Maverick that had grabbed onto him and hadn't let go, it couldn't hold up in the face of Maverick fucking off and leaving him to get shot down, even if part of him had almost understood why.

And then Maverick had come back. Maverick had come back, had stuck with him. Had saved him, and the SS Layton, too. Iceman couldn't stop remembering it, the way it had felt to know he was there on Ice's wing; the way they'd flown together, Maverick's voice hoarse but sure in Ice's ears, MiGs dropping out of the sky one at a time.

It meant more to him than it should have, so much it was almost hard to bear. He needed to go for combat duty. He needed to get as far away from Maverick as he could. Maybe then he'd feel like he was supposed to again—like ice.

* * *

"Aren't you going to take it?" Maverick said.

Iceman lowered his beer again, wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand and then risked a glance. Maverick was staring at him, brow drawing down into the barest beginnings of a frown.

"Don't know," Iceman said, level, bland. "I could do a couple tours first." He shrugged one shoulder. "TOPGUN isn't going anywhere."

"You're serious," Maverick said.

He'd been sitting the whole time, at the edge of one low broad stair leading away from the pilots' club, next to the drive. Now he stood in a rush and took a step toward Iceman, and Iceman understood for the first time that he was surprised. That he'd been expecting an unequivocal _yes_.

That he'd—thought about what Ice was going to do, where he was going to end up. That he'd been—been planning on—

No. That was stupid. Ice never let himself get carried away, and he wasn't about to start now. Maverick just wanted somebody to show off against, somebody to beat, and he'd assumed it would keep being Iceman.

"Why?" Maverick said.

His voice was sharp now, demanding. Iceman was grateful for that; it made it easier to keep a clear head.

He raised an eyebrow, and said evenly, "SS Layton ring a bell?"

Maverick's mouth tightened. He didn't answer.

"People need us out there," Iceman added. "They need good pilots."

"And you're the best of the best," Maverick said.

It was the kind of thing he'd have wielded like he expected it to have an edge that cut, before. But his tone had changed again, strange and low. Almost like he meant it.

He just stood there for a moment, after. He was clutching his beer hard enough that his knuckles had gone pale, eyes wide and fixed heavy on Iceman. "If you stayed," he said at last, "you could _make_ good pilots, Ice. Dozens of them. Ever think about that?"

Iceman looked away. "Yeah," he said, without enthusiasm, rubbing a thumb against the label on his beer. "Maybe."

"Jesus," Maverick said, almost hushed. "You're really leaving."

The first warning Iceman had was the sound of the bottle in Maverick's hand—it didn't break when he dropped it, just clonked on the concrete and then rolled away with a hollow sloshing sound. Iceman jerked his head up, and that was why he got a second warning: Maverick, bursting into motion, a blur in the dimness, before his hands closed on Iceman's sleeves.

Iceman was expecting to be hit, maybe. That would've made some kind of sense. Part of him was almost hoping for it, just like before—a lesson that would stick. Maverick's fist in his face had to have half a chance of forcing his idiot heart to stop tying itself into knots, right?

But Maverick didn't hit him.

He gripped Iceman's uniform jacket tight in his fists, just under the shoulders, and he used it to push Iceman backward into one of the stupid white portico columns. Like this, the light over the entryway fell on him at a strange angle, sharp highlights and deep shadows, like he'd stepped out of the night and been brought abruptly into focus.

And then he didn't do anything else. He just stood there, pinning Iceman back, face pale, mouth tight.

"Maverick," Iceman said, a cool quiet warning, and reached up in turn to take Maverick's elbows in his hands, ready to push him away.

And then Maverick leaned up into him and kissed him.

He couldn't have known. Iceman had been so goddamn careful—he couldn't have known. But he was Maverick. He was Maverick, so he was making a wild desperate leap: breaking all the rules, because he had twice the guts of any ten guys and a quarter of the good judgment; pulling a stupid impossible stunt that should've gotten him killed and making it easy, making it beautiful.

Iceman wasn't Maverick. Precision took effort, a deliberate exacting exercise of will. He couldn't stop being careful fast enough to do anything but wait it out, unmoving, as if there were any chance it would slide off the surface of him without leaving a mark.

There wasn't.

Maverick broke the kiss, after what felt like about an hour and was probably no more than two seconds. He didn't let go of Iceman, didn't move away; didn't try to explain himself, didn't make excuses, didn't do anything safe or sane or reasonable. He stood there, gaze steady on Iceman's face, chin lifted, breath quick.

And all Iceman could think, looking at him right then, was Maverick's voice, saying _I can't leave_.

Because Ice couldn't, god help him. He couldn't leave Maverick twisting in the wind, thinking he was alone when he wasn't. Maverick hadn't done it to him, and Iceman fucking refused to be beaten.

He wet his lips, closed his hands a little tighter on Maverick's elbows, and said, "Is that all you've got?"

Maverick's eyes narrowed.

"If you want to talk me into sticking around," Iceman elaborated, low, "you're going to have to put your back into it."

"You're such an asshole," Maverick said, and kissed him again: slower this time, hot and deep and lingering, and Iceman closed his eyes, cracking open, and kissed back.


End file.
